


Dream Demon

by Kerouge



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Character Study, Dreams, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Game Spoilers, Ghosts, M/M, Post-Canon, Spoilers, has a survivor from a past game that i made up, hey ive been oumasai trash since day 1 of this fucking game save me from hell, seriously don't read if you haven't finished the game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 12:48:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12321399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kerouge/pseuds/Kerouge
Summary: If you asked Saihara if he had feelings for Akamatsu, the answer would be “at first.”If you asked Saihara if he had feelings for Momota, the answer would be “probably.”If you asked Saihara if he had feelings for Ouma, he would’ve laughed.Would’ve.





	Dream Demon

**Author's Note:**

> Hi I love Saihara and Ouma?? Along with HaruMaki and Kaito they're like my favorite characters in the game??? And some of my top favs in the entire franchise???? And this is highkey probably my favorite pairing in danganronpa, like, ever.  
> They're just such complex and interesting characters with such a complex and interesting relationship and I wish everyone would see them that way I love this stupid game so much.  
> Anyway here's Saihara being emo for 5k words #deadbfclub

Dream Demon

* * *

 

_A flash of a white coattail had Saihara running as fast as he could, with shouts from his coworkers echoing off the walls behind him.  But Saihara didn’t care much to listen, his eyes trained ahead of him, and jaw set.  Because every flash of white was another step closer to winning their game._

_He hated thinking of it as a game, but his opponent stressed it, and Saihara was never too pushy.  The phantom thief seemed to adore games, or just winning in general.  Saihara never pegged himself as the competitive type, but something about the thief made his pulse race and his mind set on one goal._

_It used to bug him.  The nights like tonight when he’d have to rush up countless flights of stairs in a random building of the thief’s choosing because the elevator just so_ happened _to be broken when he needed to use it, when he could barely think about anything other than keeping his breathing steady and catching his rival, when he felt as though he could collapse at any second, but kept going out of pure spite.  But it’s thrilling, now, in an odd sort of way, and Saihara wonders if this is why the phantom thief kept it going.  If this sensation was what drove him._

_He reaches the top of the building before he realizes it, and pushes open the doors with every last ounce of strength he has.  He takes a few steps out into the open air and expects it to be bitingly cold and windy.  But it’s not - it never is, somehow - and with his heart in his throat and pounding in his ears, he sees him._

_The phantom thief is before him, adorned in a white three-piece suit with a matching top hat, and a mask that protected his identity just enough for Saihara to have no clue who he could be.  His hair was dark, pointed, and everywhere, and everything about the boy made Saihara’s pulse skyrocket and his cheeks flush up._

_In anger, Saihara reminded himself.  After all, he just made him abandon his team and run up an entire building._

_The phantom thief, upon noticing his entrance, shot the detective a sly grin, which pushed Saihara to keep walking.  The thief didn’t move from his spot, still smiling, and Saihara gulped as his footstep count continued to increase._

_He stopped right before the thief, whose only movement the whole way through was shifting to lean against the railing, arms behind his neck, clearly mocking his opponent.  He stared down at the thief for a moment, who stared back up expectantly, and then forced himself to reach for the handcuffs with his left hand._

_His right grabbed the thief’s opposite arm, though without much resistance on his part.  “You’re under arrest,” Saihara said, though his words came out breathy and shaken.  The thief didn’t seem phased, and pushed himself off the railing and a step closer to Saihara, who tensed._

_“Am I?” he sang back, demolishing any sense of personal space Saihara could’ve had.  Before Saihara can react, the handcuffs are out of his hand and in the thief's, and then dropped on the floor and kicked to the side._

_The thief’s eyes never left the detective’s._

_Saihara was shaking, he could feel it, and he pinned it down to nervousness because he was alone.  But his coworkers would find him eventually - the city wasn’t that large - and they were smart.  It would be fine._

_But he was still shaking._

_The thief moves a gloved hand to Saihara’s cheek, and the sensation causes him to shiver.  He’s positive the thief notices because his grin twitches a little, as though he were laughing.  It rests there for a moment, before sliding down his face and into the crook of his neck.  Saihara bites his lip unconsciously, trying to find the right words to say, but everything is dying in his throat.  And then, the thief pulls Saihara down enough and pushes himself up on his toes enough to bring his lips to his ear--_

_“Don’t forget me, my beloved Saihara.”_

  


Saihara woke up in a cold sweat and an empty bed.

  


If you asked Saihara if he had feelings for Akamatsu, the answer would be “at first.”

He did, at first.  When he and her were always side by side, planning their victories together and unifying everyone.  When he’d see how selfless she was - no matter who it was, she would risk herself for them.  Her charming personality, her confidence, her appearance; what wasn’t to love?

But, Saihara later realized that it wasn’t love.

It was idolization.  Without Akamatsu he would’ve never grown, yes, and he’s eternally grateful for that, but he also never saw her as a real person.

Real people have flaws.  To him, Akamatsu did not.

It was through Momota and Harukawa that Saihara was able to realize what it meant to truly love someone, as they were his best friends, and love is to care for someone even with their faults.  If you take away a person’s faults and only “love” their strengths, then it’s not really love.  So therefore, he had realized grimly, he didn’t really love Akamatsu.  Maybe at first, but he made conscious decisions afterwards to ignore her mistakes and flaws.  It wasn’t love.

If you asked Saihara if he had feelings for Momota, the answer would be “probably.”

He probably did, because he recognized how he felt with Momota as something akin to how he felt with Akamatsu.  At first, Saihara wanted to brush it off as another case of his dependence on other people, and his jump to idolizing them, as evidenced with Akamatsu.

But Saihara recognized Momota’s flaws.  Saihara didn’t always agree with everything Momota did, but still cared for him all the same.  And the two of them had disagreements because they were their own people and they both acknowledged that.

But by the time Saihara came to terms with that, and came to terms with what may have been feelings, it was clear that Momota’s heart was set in another direction.  Every other sentence had something to do with “HaruMaki”, and the reverse was the case on her part.  But Saihara, surprisingly, wasn’t jealous: in fact, the opposite, rather.  He was happy for his best friends, because they were happy together.  But they were also happy with him, albeit not in the exact same way.  So Saihara put those feelings aside and let them die, instead favoring his friendship.

 

If you asked Saihara if he had feelings for Ouma, he would’ve laughed.

Would’ve.

And yet, despite it being weeks after the game’s completion, weeks after their return to society, weeks after the world began to finally heal and move on (because to the world, Danganronpa was a game, _never_ a reality), and weeks after the survivors were forced into adjusting to live a life they couldn’t remember, Ouma was the only thing on his mind.

It wasn’t on purpose.  Sometimes it would be something little, like someone laughing even remotely similar to him, and then Saihara’s mind would be filled with memories of him, laughing and smiling and _lying to his face every second of every day._ Or sometimes it would be when someone recognized him on the street, and started enthusiastic conversation about the game.  Inevitably, Ouma would come up in conversation, and then suddenly the world has dispersed and it’s them, back in that hell, and he’s wrapping Ouma’s cut because he totally flubbed that game on purpose and _yet_ Saihara can’t help but dote on him because something’s telling him Ouma wouldn’t dote on himself--

The more Saihara thought about it - and, subsequently, him - the more Saihara began to realize the truth, as much as it killed him.  He had always spent so much time pursuing the truth in Ouma’s lies, so much time with him in an attempt to grasp some semblance of good nature in him, so much time dedicated to trying to understand him, that once they finally realized the truth of what he did and why, and just how much Ouma worked towards getting everyone out despite being terrified of trusting them…

He didn’t even want to think the words.

Sometimes, he didn’t have to.  Because he’d dream them instead.  His dreams were filled to the brim with Ouma - sometimes opposing him, sometimes beside him, and on the most embarrassing occasions, beneath him.  It was becoming a problem that Saihara couldn’t keep trying to ignore.  So in his dreams, he’d catch himself saying those words, or Ouma saying those words, or even thinking those words, and he’d wake up because he’d force himself to.  No, he couldn’t love Ouma.  Ouma had sacrificed three people for his goals; Ouma had lied to them and nearly gotten them killed countless times; Ouma was always causing problems and making a mess out of an already messy situation.  How could he?  He couldn’t.

 

_(But sometimes, every once in awhile, his dreams would have him standing in that courtroom, learning the truth behind every lie Ouma told, every action he made, and how Ouma, in the end, had every intention of sacrificing himself for everyone from the start.  He dreams of hearing Monokuma confirm that DiCE was nothing more than a harmless prank group, and that they forbid murder.  He dreams of that crushing realization that Ouma never actually killed anyone, that is, anyone but--)_

 

His family and friends from before the game had trouble adjusting to the new Saihara to begin with, but when combined with the stress that plagued his thoughts almost every second of the day, no one knew how to properly approach and console him.

It’s Harukawa who shows up at his door, demands entrance (that his parents fearfully allow), and forces herself into Saihara’s space.  And as annoyed as it makes him at the time, he’s grateful, because, in a way, she’ll understand.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

It’s more of a statement than a fact, and it’s delivered in that monotone that Harukawa says almost everything in.  But Saihara knows her, and knows that look in her eyes, and knows that she means well and is worried.  He offers a somber smile.

“Yeah.  I miss Momota a lot.”

Not a lie in itself, but a lie in context.  Saihara hasn’t forgotten about Momota, and definitely never will, but he knows how he felt - and feels - about Momota.  It’s resolute.  It’s not a plague on his mind, much.

He just wishes that Momota, like many others, didn’t die.

“I know the feeling,” she says, her voice a whisper.  “But that’s not who I was talking about.”

“What?”

“He wasn’t--look.  We both know I don’t like him.  But I don’t hate him.  Not anymore.”

When Saihara doesn’t respond, but still keeps that shell-shocked look, she continues.

“In the end, he was a victim, just like all of us.  Naturally, I don’t agree with anything he did.  It was awful and fucked up and so was he.  But without him...without him, we would’ve never escaped that hell.  Just like he wanted everyone to.  And you know that better than I do.”

Saihara still remained silent, eyes frozen on Harukawa’s face, as though looking for a reason to refute what she was saying.  What he wanted to hear was that he was wrong, that he was foolish, that he shouldn’t - and then maybe he wouldn’t.  But she didn’t.

“I know that look,” Harukawa adds, her voice still small, but in a different way, and it's evident to her friend that her thoughts are now flicking back to Momota.  “Stop denying yourself.  It doesn’t do you any good in the end.”

“Either way, it’s too late.”

He croaks it out before he even realizes he says it (that seems to be his life lately; irrational phrases and actions brought to life with little more than a sparing thought) and his eyes widen at the words.  Hers do, too.  But they fall fairly quickly, back to her hands in her lap with a sigh ghosting her lips.

“It’s always too late, isn’t it?”

They fall into silence after that.

 

_The door to the warehouse is shut tight and, despite his best efforts, Saihara can’t find a way to open it before dawn hits.  He groans, letting his fist slam into the wall as an attempt to get his frustration out.  It doesn’t help.  His wrist hurts tremendously now._

_Behind him, he can hear the phantom thief snicker as he twirls his top hat around his pointer finger, pacing around lightly.  “Breaking your hand won’t do you any good, little detective.  Though perhaps we can use your bone shards as lockpicking material?”_

_“Please,” Saihara answers dryly.  “If there was a lock to pick you would’ve picked it already.”_

_The boy hums.  “What an interestingly accurate statement I never showcased to you.  Say, Saihara, are you stalking me?”_

_“You wish.”_

_“Maybe,” he says, his voice a song that sends a shiver down Saihara’s spine, and Saihara hears a soft thump on the ground that he assumes to be the thief’s top hat.  Saihara doesn’t have to turn around to hear the thief walking towards him, a small click of his heel accompanied by every footstep, and something in him isn't surprised when he hears the thief stop behind him.  His pulse betrays him though, racing faster than his breaths and flushing his face.  He feels a hand on his back and he jolts at the touch._

_The thief’s laugh at his actions is low and breathy._

_“I did tell you I want your eyes on me, Saihara,” he whispers, but it’s a thunderous noise to the detective.  “That hasn’t changed.”_

_“Y-you--”_

_“Oh shush.  We have all night, don’t we?”  The hand on Saihara’s back snakes around his side, and Saihara’s thoughts are racing a mile a minute.  He doesn’t move, he can’t move, and the thief takes full advantage of it, lightly pushing Saihara entirely up against the wall with his free arm.  Saihara’s flaming forehead initially is set aback by the coolness of the wall against it, but his excitement jolts back to where it was as the thief’s head finds itself on Saihara’s left shoulder.  He exhales lightly but it’s enough to make Saihara intake a sharp breath, shifting his weight unconsciously.  The thief smirks, and while Saihara can’t see it, he_ feels _it, and opens his mouth to speak._

 

_(“Stop denying yourself.  It doesn’t do you any good in the end.”)_

 

_Harukawa’s words hit him and he realizes he’s in a dream, and Ouma’s behind him, and none of this is real because it’s already ended.  His mouth is dry and he licks his lips, wondering briefly what the point is anymore of continuing this. The glamor of the scenario fades away, and suddenly his shoes are infinitely more interesting than anything else, and he stares at them as though they hold his answer.  Should he wake up?  Should he keep going?  He really didn’t want to anymore, it wasn’t--_

_“Uh...Saihara?”_

_Saihara can’t help the grimace that forms, but he forces himself to turn his head towards Ouma’s.  He’s uncomfortably close and Saihara can barely make out his features aside from a pout, but the slightest bit of eye contact drives Saihara back to the safe haven that is his shoes.  There’s a moment before Ouma releases his grip on Saihara, backing away to a comfortable distance._

_Saihara’s still uncomfortably warm, but his world is colder now, and he forces himself to swallow the lump in his throat._

_“I was just kidding you know,” Ouma says, and there’s a chuckle in his voice, but it’s flat and forced and hardly a good lie.  Saihara wonders what he must look like right now to convince_ Ouma Kokichi _not to lie successfully.  “No need to get all freaked.  Why would I want you to look at me, anyway?”_

_When Saihara doesn’t answer, Ouma sighs, and begins to walk away with a murmur of “boring” under his breath._

 

_(“Stop denying yourself.  It doesn’t do you any good in the end.”)_

 

_“Ouma.”_

_The thief stops and Saihara just barely hears him hum in response over his pounding heart._

_“I…” Am sorry I never understood you.  Am sorry that no matter how hard I analyzed you, and the situation, I was never able to see who you really are.  Am a failure as a detective.  Told you that you’d always be alone and it kills me because I was_ right _and I just wish I wasn’t because I should’ve known better, we all should’ve.  Wish you didn’t see through me better than I can see myself even in death because you’re dead, and I could’ve prevented that._

_“I miss you.”_

_The words come out small and broken, but they echo against the concrete walls and rest heavy in the air.  Saihara feels himself begin to crumble, his hand that was once pounding against the wall trying its hardest to grip the flat surface to keep himself afloat.  But it fails and he falls to his knees, scratching the concrete, shaking, and fighting back tears._

_“I miss your stupid quips and games, and how you were always purposely losing to teach me something.  I miss your lies that I knew had something underneath them.  I miss your stupid face, and your stupid smile, and I just_ miss you _.  I should’ve been there.  I should’ve--if I’d let myself, maybe you and Momota and Gokuhara and Iruma...maybe, you wouldn’t--”_

_“Geez, Saihara.  Really?  You really think you could’ve prevented that all by your lonesome?”_

_Saihara stops short, the words dying on his tongue, but he keeps his eyes frozen on his shoes, in hopes to keep the illusion of Ouma still alive.  Ouma’s voice lost its playful jump during his rampage, and he could picture the face he was making.  He’s seen it a billion times; he’ll never see it again._

_He chokes back a sob._

_“Saihara, if_ anything _should be taken from that mess, it’s that you can’t do everything by yourself.  I’m living proof.”  He snorts.  “Well, you know what I mean.”_

_“But I still could’ve--”_

_“No, you couldn’t have.  Yeah, I trusted you.  But that wouldn’t make me automatically trust everyone else, you know?  And same with them.  I did what I felt was best.  It had nothing to do with you.”_

_Saihara doesn’t say anything, forcing sobs down his throat as tears burn through his cheeks.  He hears Ouma start walking back towards him again, stopping only to kneel down behind him, an arm outstretched and a hand on his back._

_It takes all of Saihara’s willpower not to jump into his arms._

_“And hey, you lived, right?”  Ouma’s smiling now, he can hear it.  “Then that’s all that matters.  We won!  We defeated the mastermind!  Who cares how we got to the conclusion?”_

_“I do,” Saihara chokes.  “I care.”_

_Ouma is silent for a moment._

_“And that’s where we’ve always differed, eh Saihara?”_

_(“That’s why they didn’t care for me, right Saihara?  That’s why they didn’t care that I died, ain’t it so, Saihara?  That’s why you feel guilty, isn’t that it, Saihara?”)_

_Saihara closes his eyes.  “Yeah.”_

 

Saihara is curled up in a ball in his covers when he wakes up, and despite his best efforts, he’s freezing.

 

The rest of Saihara’s day is mechanical.

He wakes up and doesn’t eat, gets a lecture from his parents, and patronizes them until they continue with their onslaught of _we’re worried, we just want the best for you_ , and he bites back _well maybe you shouldn’t have let me audition for a fucking killing game_ , instead thanking them for worrying and leaving for the day.  He meets with Harukawa and Yumeno, and they hang out, Harukawa ranting about her daycare job and Yumeno stopping somewhere before lunch to do some street magic with her “assistants”.  Then came lunch, where they’d all get something small and hardly eat it, covering up their lack of basic self-care with idle chatter of things no one really cared about.  Then they’d part ways, and Saihara always took the long way home.  It was just habit at this point, and his legs ached by the time he made it back hours later every day without fail.

But halfway through his walk and a person grabs his shoulder.  He whirls around in the fastest motion he can manage, throwing their arm off his shoulder, and stares the stranger down. The stranger throws their hands up in defense, apologizing for startling him, but saying they recognized him from the game.

Saihara visibly deflates, but still stays on guard.  The person frowns.

“I’m a survivor, too.”

And then Saihara’s eyes widen and he snaps to attention.

 

The pair find a seat on a bench in the nearby park and for hours, the two talk.  His new companion explains their story.  His name is Hikaru and he survived killing game V1 along with a person named Emi.  They were a Tactician and a Researcher, respectively.  They too went through six trials, but unlike for Saihara, their final trial was a mass murder brought upon by a Doctor named Soma - their mastermind - leaving the two of them to overcome him.  In the process, Hikaru mentions, he lost the one he loved the most.

“I still dream about her,” he said, his eyes forlorn and cast to the sky.  “I just wish things could've been different.”

“I get that,” Saihara grumbles

“Every survivor I’ve spoken to does.  It’s just...well, I’d say it’s not fair, but that’s a given.”

“Naturally.  It just feels like I didn’t do enough, you know?”

Hikaru nods.  “All too much.  If I’d just said something sooner, then maybe--”

“--they’d be alive.”

Hikaru, turns his head to Saihara, offering a somber smile, before turning back to the sky above him.  It’s evening now, Saihara realizes.  He’d been so caught up in conversation.  

_Where does the time go?_

“Sometimes I like to believe that she can still hear me,” Hikaru whispered.  “That it’s really her in my dreams.”

Saihara side-eyes Hikaru, then joins his gaze to the sky.  “You think so?”

“I hope so.”

Neither says a word after that, instead watching the sun set into the horizon and purple begins to paint the sky.

 

_Saihara’s on the lawn of the academy, looking up to the night sky and the twinkling stars.  Faintly, he wonders where Momota is, but something in him is assured that he’s with Harukawa.  That he’s okay._

_It’s not cold out, but it’s not necessarily hot either, and there’s a faint breeze that’s shifting Saihara’s hair enough to make him adjust it a few times.  Saihara’s comfortable, and for the first time in a long time, he finds himself at peace._

_In the midst of Saihara’s silent appreciation for the peace of the nighttime, he heard soft footsteps behind him, letting out a small sigh, but smiling nonetheless._

_“Ouma, I know you’re there.”_

_The footsteps stop at his words and he hears Ouma click his tongue.  “Saihara saw right through my trick?  Boo, how boring.”_

_Despite his words, Ouma skips over to where Saihara’s laying down, following suit.  He stretches his arms obnoxiously, making a squeaky noise as he squirms beside Saihara, knocking into him a few times._

_“Hey, watch it,” Saihara scolds, but he’s laughing so it hardly comes out intimidating.  Ouma laughs in that weird way he always does, finally settling with his arms behind his head and one leg crossed over the other._

_“You’re giggly today.” Ouma looks up at the sky.  “Tonight.”_

_Saihara hums.  “Just a bit less stressed than usual.  Talked a few things out today.”_

_“Oh?” Ouma turns his head to Saihara and moves it closer.  “What kind of things?  And with whom?”_

_Saihara pauses, trying to collect his thoughts.  Who did he…?_

_And then he remembers.  And then he realizes._

_Saihara clears his throat.  “A tactician.  And about stuff.  Like his killing game.”_

_Ouma merely raises his eyebrows in response._

_“Admittedly, I haven’t been talking to a lot of people.  I’m, well, a little nervous.  But, like you told me, I can’t do everything alone.  And that includes healing.  You know?”_

_Ouma doesn’t say anything, instead rolling his body on its side, head in hand._

_“And I was...I was stopping myself, I think.  Out of guilt and stuff.  But, I’m starting to see a little clearer now.”_

_“Did HaruMaki clean your glasses or something?”_

_It’s a stupid joke and it doesn’t make any sense, but Saihara laughs anyway.  It’s full and bright and makes Ouma laugh too and then they’re both laughing, because it’s them and nothing else matters.  Saihara doesn’t even wear glasses.  Saihara doesn’t even care._

_He turns on his side to face Ouma, and for the first time in months, he lets himself look at him.  Ouma’s hair is wild and in his face, with bright purple eyes focused on him.  He’s got a crooked grin on, and his cheeks are pink from laughing unnecessarily hard.  Before Saihara even realizes (as that seems to be his life lately; irrational phrases and actions brought to life with little more than a sparing thought) his hand is brushing Ouma’s hair out of the way, and sparks fly as his fingertips just barely brush his face.  Ouma tenses, his smile falters, and his eyes widen, meeting Saihara’s._

_Saihara finds their eye contact magnetic, and he too is dumbfounded by his actions, but doesn’t move his hand.  There’s a moment of uncertainty, and he sees something flicker in Ouma’s eyes.  Ouma’s got a lie on the tip of his tongue, an escape ready, and he’s sitting up, Saihara’s hand retracting, and about to take it when Saihara decides enough is enough and he’s tired of hiding._

_“You said,” he croaks, clearing his throat again and once more causing Ouma to freeze, “you said that I can’t do everything myself.”_

_Ouma is silent for a beat.  “I did.”_

_Saihara pushes himself up to sit.  “And...and you’re right.  I can’t do everything alone.  But there are some things I can.”_

_Ouma, cautious, furrows his brows.  “What are you--”_

_Before he can finish, Saihara’s pulled him into a tight hug, nearly falling over himself in the process.  Ouma’s warm, which Saihara finds peculiar, but doesn’t have the heart to question it.  Hesitantly, Ouma returns the gesture, causing Saihara to tighten his grip and bury his burning face into Ouma’s shoulder._

_“I love you.”_

_It’s muffled and quiet, but he knows Ouma hears it from the way he tenses, his breath catching.  It’s as though a huge weight is lifted off Saihara’s shoulders, and he feels a hundred times lighter, a hundred times better, and alive._

_After a moment, Ouma’s grip tightens, and he reciprocates Saihara’s hug tenfold, his head diving into the nape of Saihara’s neck.  He feels Ouma shake, and he hears a small hiccup of a sob, with something wet on his jacket. Saihara feels tears forming in his eyes, too, and just like that, they’re entangled and in tears.  Before Saihara even notices, he’s rubbing Ouma’s back, and Ouma chokes out his own confession somewhere between all the crying and sniffling._

_After what feels like hours of tears, the two are back on the ground, clinging to each other, knowing full well that when Saihara woke up, everything would be over.  Ouma’s silent against Saihara’s chest, fists balled into his jacket, and Saihara has one hand slung around Ouma’s side and the other in his hair.  Saihara looks down at Ouma, and then back up to the sky.  The stars haven’t changed position.  He hopes they never do._

_“You better not forget me, okay?”_

_Saihara looks down at Ouma, who still has his face buried in Saihara’s chest.  He smiles, sifting his hand through Ouma’s hair lightly.  “You really think I could?”_

_“You don’t want me to answer that,” Ouma mumbles, and Saihara frowns, taking his hand out of Ouma’s hair._

_“Ouma.”_

_Ouma reluctantly looks up, meeting Saihara’s eyes once more, a frown on his face and his eyes puffy from all the tears._

_“I could never forget about you, Ouma.  You’ve changed my life.  And I mean that.”_

_Ouma studies his face for a second before huffing.  Shaking his head lightly, he smiled, burying himself against Saihara’s chest once more._

_“You’re lucky you’re not boring.”_

_Saihara smiles._

 

When Saihara wakes up the next morning, alone in his bed, it’s okay.  Because he knows, deep down, that it will be.

As he gets ready to face the day, leaving to join his parents for breakfast, he fails to notice the checkered scarf hanging on his desk chair.


End file.
